


Archangel of Healing

by Nnm



Series: The Healer and the Lover [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Have a Fight, Aziraphale searches for an ineffable plan, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Slight physical injury and healing, Slight physical intimacy, They love each other, What it is like to Fall, What it is like to forgive, a recipe for stew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nnm/pseuds/Nnm
Summary: Aziraphale susses out Crowley's pre-Fall identity, as the Archangel Raphael. With this, he must rethink everything he thought he knew about the last six thousand years, about his own identity and his friend's, and even the Ineffable Plan. There is a fight, expressions of fear and hurt, reconciliation, yearning and confusion, and the sorts of questions that by all rights should cause an angel to Fall.Also, at one point, Crowley admits he once lied about breeding rats for demonic ends.





	Archangel of Healing

The Apocalypse-that-wasn’t is old hat, yesterday’s news. Crowley and Aziraphale have settled into accepting all the new possibilities available to them. And there were a lot of new possibilities. There were the possibilities that come from being two celestial bodies who have no one pestering them anymore. Connectedly, but separately, there were the possibilities that come from being two celestial bodies who no longer have to pretend they sit on opposing sides but can pull ever closer into each others' orbits. And then there were also some particularly interesting possibilities that had far less to do with being celestial and far more to do with having bodies. But enough about that. 

Perhaps least impressive but most immediately relevant were the possibilities stemming from the fact that The National Gallery in London had just put up an exhibition called “Saints and Angels: Iconography Present and Past,” and if there was anything Aziraphale counted as a good morning outing, it was getting a good look at iconographical failures--and, if Crowley spent the whole time pretending not to enjoy it one jot, all the better. 

That is what got them halfway through the exhibit, to a place in front of an ostentatious splatter of colors. It was all modern with disjointed bits and harsh contrasts, so try-hard.

“Well, I just don’t even understand this one,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s called ‘The Archangel,’” Crowley replied. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“Yes, but which one?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hm,” Crowley replied.

“If _I_ can’t recognize which Archangel one is depicting, I’d say that means something has gone wrong with one’s depiction. That thing there, is that supposed to be a staff? Just what is that supposed to represent?”

“Hm,” Crowley replied.

“Do you think this is some Dada nonsense? Oh, I hope Dada isn’t making a comeback… Perhaps this painter simply does not know his iconography.”

“No, that’s not it. He got it right,” Crowley mumbled.

“Oh, he did?”

“Hm,” Crowley replied.

“Well, who is it?”

Crowley didn’t reply.

“Well? Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t reply. 

Aziraphale sighed. “There aren’t that many Archangels. Just what am I missing?” 

Crowley took this opportunity to leave the angel’s side, and he sauntered off to the other side of the room. It was alright: they were still together. It’s just that, at this precise moment, Crowley had become far more intently intrigued by a blank section of wall as far away as possible from this particular painting than he had anything else this whole day.

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Aziraphale exclaimed, finally satisfied, although he was a bit louder than he meant to be. “It’s Raphael!” 

Others in the room glanced to him, Crowley did not. That was alright: Aziraphale moved over to him. “You know what it was? It was the snake! Silly me, I see a snake in a painting, I assume it’s you. It completely slipped my mind that Raphael--”

“I think I’m done with art for the day,” Crowley interrupted. “Let’s go get some lunch somewhere.” 

***

Lunch was an easy thing for both Crowley and Aziraphale, filled with nostalgic comfort far more than new possibilities. Lunch had a script that they could follow, that they had followed for centuries. Aziraphale would dine, Crowley would nibble, both might drink. When Aziraphale would chatter, Crowley would listen.  It just so happened that now, Aziraphale’s chatter returned to their morning at the museum.

“You know, isn’t it fascinating, how they still keep remembrance of Raphael,” Aziraphale said.

“Huh,” Crowley replied.

“He Fell, yet still they show him as an Archangel in full Glory,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley was far too intent on his cup of tea to reply.

“He was supposed to have my job, you know. The Eastern Gate? In the Garden? Or, I suppose it’s more accurate to say that I ended up with his job, after he Fell,” Aziraphale said. “Strange, they would design a job for an Archangel, and then when he’s not around anymore, give it to just any old Principality like me…” He paused, grew amused: “Doubt he’d have been daft enough to give his flaming sword away!”

Crowley finally pulled his attention up from his cup. “I’m tired of lunch. I want some air. Let’s go walk at the park.” He was already standing up. 

***

It was a lovely afternoon at the park. Of course, Aziraphale had found every afternoon at the park to be lovely, after the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. This most certainly was because, since then, every afternoon at the park had been spent with Crowley by his side.

“You must know what happened to him, don’t you?” Aziraphale mused.

“What?” Crowley sounded distracted. “Who?”

“Raphael, of course. He must be somewhere down there, with all your ex-colleagues, yes? Funny, I never thought much about him. One of the two Fallen Archangels, and nary a peep, unlike the other one, you know. He was supposed to Sound the Trumpets at the start of Armageddon, and yet he didn’t even show up…”

Aziraphale had every reason to believe that all this nattering was about nothing, or at least nothing important or noteworthy. This was what a lovely afternoon in the park with Crowley was, after all: a chance to natter away about nothing and everything, just the two of them together. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when Crowley suddenly stopped following the script. He transformed sharp like barbed wire and pulled away from Aziraphale.

"You’re still going on about this!” Crowley snapped. “You see one stupid painting -- and a really bad one at that, not one you even _like_ \-- and suddenly you can’t shut up about it. Maybe you can keep your thoughts to yourself about everyone you knew who Fell.” 

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond. His brows furrowed, his hands fluttered to his front. The afternoon suddenly wasn’t quite as lovely anymore.

Crowley softened. “Look. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just tired.” He returned to the angel’s side, pressing close with consolatory intimacy. 

“I didn’t know Raphael.” Aziraphale mumbled. “I just know _of_ him. I didn’t mean anything…”

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “I know. Listen, let’s just go back to your shop. I’ll take a nap. I didn’t mean to shout.”

It was alright. Aziraphale was alright, and an afternoon can be lovely even if there is a small spot of rain. 

***

For an angel, Aziraphale is remarkably slow. This is not to say, however, that he is _stupid_ or _dimwitted._ It’s an unfortunate fact that we tend to equate _slowness_ with _stupidity_ , when the two actually have nothing to do with one another. Aziraphale isn’t stupid; his mind just doesn’t always focus in on things the way that another’s might.

Take Crowley’s mind. It’s always working, always chugging away. His mind moves, immediately and without effort, from any Point A to Point B and then reliably to Point C. He’s like a logic-seeking missile, taking in facts and spitting out questions, problems, solutions. That’s how his mind works, and it means that he is always very fast.

But Aziraphale is slow. He is a being of love, and his mind is always aware of just how much there is to love in any experience, any thought, any concept. Give him Point A, and he’ll spend a week exalting in all its glorious little details before finally winding his way to Point B, which will in turn lead him on fun little romps to Points P, Q, F, or T, leaving aside the prospect of Point C until he has some reason to return to it. Aziraphale _could_ move straight from A to B to C, but where would be the joy in it? Aziraphale’s mind _works_ ; he just has a different set of priorities.

Throughout the morning, his priorities had been as follows: 

  1. Find as many opportunities to take Crowley’s hand in his own and run his thumb over the demon’s skin;
  2. Stand close enough to Crowley to breathe in his scent;
  3. Have some fun with his co-conspirator at the expense of postmodern artists who think they are all so clever.



After the incident in the park, however, Aziraphale’s priorities had shifted.  Now, as the demon was sprawled out on his couch, snoring softly, his mind put itself at task of getting from Point A to, well, whichever Point it led to.

  * Point A: Crowley was deeply upset by something. 
  * Point A.1: it had to do with the art exhibit. 



Aziraphale made himself a cup of tea, allowing his mind to work.

  * Point A.2: It had, more specifically, to do with the painting of Raphael.
  * Point A.3: It had, even more specifically, to do with how Aziraphale kept talking about the painting of Raphael.
  * Point A.4: It had, generally and encompassingly, to do with the Fallen Archangel, Raphael.



There are a number of different directions these points could lead. Perhaps Crowley was jealous that Raphael got associated with snakes, homing in on his territory. Or perhaps Raphael -- or, rather, the demon he had become after his Fall -- had been a particular nuisance to Crowley. Crowley certainly wasn’t fond of his ex-colleagues. Perhaps the-demon-who-once-was-Raphael was the one in charge of all the paperwork, for instance. One couldn’t judge Crowley harshly for being upset by reminders of his millennia spent as Satan’s servant.

But Aziraphale knew that couldn’t be right. He knew this because:

  * Point B: Crowley had recognized the painting’s subject, he had said as much.
  * Point B.1: Crowley had recognized Raphael before Aziraphale, and he had every opportunity to say it, especially as Aziraphale had specifically asked.
  * Point B.2: Crowley has never been reluctant to name his ex-colleagues--either the ones from above or the ones, more recently turned _ex_ , from below.
  * Point B.3: And yet-- _and yet_ \--he had not uttered to Aziraphale the depicted Archangel’s name.



One is not supposed to say the Created name of a Fallen angel, of course. That’s a rule in Heaven and, so far as Aziraphale understands, an even more harshly enforced rule in Hell. If Aziraphale were concerned with that sort of rule at this time, he would not have used the name ‘Raphael’ at all when discussing the painting. But Aziraphale was (graciously, gracefully) beyond caring about such ordinances at this point. And Crowley? Crowley had never held any respect for Heaven’s or Hell’s taboos. It could not be for propriety’s sake that Crowley had refrained from simply saying, ‘Raphael.’

It was a mere rule that others were not to refer to a Fallen angel by their Created name, but it was a different matter for the Fallen angel himself. Aziraphale knew this. He knew why he had a name that sounded like a verse in an angelic harmony, while Crowley did not. He knew that Falling stripped an angel of his grace. He knew it stripped an angel of his name, leaving the creature completely bereft of the previous identity. He knew that, while anyone else might refer to the Fallen Raphael by that name, the-demon-who-had-been-Raphael would find his jaw clench, his throat constrict, his tongue bleed before he could sound out the set of syllables that had previously been his own.

Aziraphale sat in his quiet and calm bookshop. He sat, watching over the demon currently napping on his couch. He sat, and his mind worked its way towards the edges of Point C, which was coming closer and closer. 

***

Later, Crowley awoke. He lounged on Aziraphale’s couch with a trashy magazine, the likes of which Aziraphale barely could stomach having in his store. He flipped through the magazine, from one page to the next, too quickly to read any of its contents or take in any of its pictures. The point was the flipping, not anything as dull as reading or looking.

Aziraphale was sitting across the room in his chair at his desk. He had a book in front of him, but he was not even pretending to read it. He was watching his demon, and he was trying very hard to pretend his gaze was casual.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “I am curious. How would you state your opinion of Michael?”

“Wanker,” Crowley responded, flipping a page.

“And Gabriel?”

“Double wanker.” Another page flipped. “No, wait -- triple wanker.”

“Lucifer-that-was?”

“They’re _all_ wankers.”

“And…” Aziraphale hesitated. “What about Raphael?”

Everything stopped. Crowley stopped. His hand was gripping a page of the magazine, halfway through the next flip, and it stopped, hovering between the page that was and the page to come.

“I don’t know why you’re asking this nonsense,” he finally said. His voice was perfectly calm in a way that Aziraphale knew was not in any way actually calm.

Here it was. Here was Point C, clear as day. It had arrived.

“My God,” Aziraphale whispered, eliciting from Crowley a hiss. He was looking at Crowley, and Crowley was not looking at him. “Crowley!”

Crowley didn’t respond.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated. His mind was racing and he no longer felt comfortable staying seated. He stood, he started to pace towards the couch, he stopped himself. “Crowley, _it’s you_.”

Crowley didn’t respond.

Aziraphale brought a hand up to his cheek, finding himself shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. It was that kind of disbelief one only ever experiences when, deep down, one can’t actually find any disbelief at all.

“Crowley, you’re…” This was Point C, wedging its way irrevocably into the known space between them. “You are the Archangel Raphael!”

It took a moment for anything to happen. Then Crowley bent his neck unhumanly, so that he could face the angel precisely from his spot on the couch. His sunglasses were on, but Aziraphale knew what expression they hid. It was one he never liked seeing.

Crowley said, “That’s a funny tense you’re using there.”

It wasn’t a denial, and that was all Aziraphale noticed. He felt the need to shift in place. He clenched and unclenched his hands, and he moved his eyes away from the demon. “You never told me!” he said. “All this time. All these millennia--us working together, with The Arrangement. Was that why you came and talked to me at the Wall? Is that why? I can’t believe it…” 

Crowley said nothing.

Aziraphale continued. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Why would I?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was still shocked and swimming through it. “Why _wouldn’t_ you?”

“Why _would_ I?” Crowley repeated.

“This is unmeasurable!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “This is confounding. Crowley, come on!”

“No,” Crowley said, tense like stone or perhaps something sharper. He lowered the hand that was holding the half-flipped magazine page, the movement harsh and ripping. “ _You_ come on. _You_ tell me.” He was talking through clenched teeth, clenched jaw, teeth exposed. “This is stupid.”

“This is stupid?” Aziraphale repeated, rolling his eyes. “This is stupid! Crowley, for _fuck’s_ sake!”

“Calm down,” Crowley said.

“Calm down?” He kept repeating things. “Calm down! Don’t you get it? You want me to calm down, when I have _a God-Damned Archangel_ sitting on my couch!”

This outburst brought with it a pause. It was the kind of pause one might call a _pregnant pause_ , but that would be a mistake. When a pause is pregnant, what it’s pregnant with is possibilities, and the fact that it’s pregnant means that there is at least a chance those possibilities will come to fruition, to life. This pause wasn’t like that at all. This pause, to the contrary, was far more likely to sneak up behind possibilities in a dark alley and strangle them dead with taut piano wire.

“Right.” Crowley nodded his head once, twice, and then he tossed the magazine away. “I’m leaving.” 

“What?” Crowley hadn’t _left_ since the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. Whenever there had been leaving to do since then, it had been an endeavor jointly undertaken. “Where are you going?”

Crowley was already up and lunging out the door by the time Aziraphale tried to reach out for him. “Crowley, don’t go!” he shouted.

That was enough to get Crowley to pause, one foot in the door and one out. It wasn’t enough to get Crowley to look at him. “I’ll see you around, Angel,” he said quietly. And then he was gone. 

***

Crowley came back. Of course he did. It only took a couple days, while Aziraphale had anticipated it might take even more than a month or two. Unfortunately, two days hadn’t been enough time for Aziraphale to do all the thinking he needed. He was, after all, so very slow.

Crowley walked in, snapped the doors shut behind him, moped across to the couch, and collapsed down onto it, all without giving Aziraphale a single glance.  He breathed out loudly, settling with his hands clasped between his knees. “Alright, Angel,” he said, “We’re going to talk about this, and we’re going to move past it.”

“Is it that easy?” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, and he was trying to keep it from wavering. He sat in his chair across the room from Crowley.

“Should be,” Crowley said. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s different.” He shifted in his seat, kept his gaze close to his side. “We never talked about things before the Fall, never had to. It never mattered, it doesn’t matter now.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. In recent weeks, he and the demon had been experimenting with a new activity, mutual-couch-sitting. So far, these experiments had led to very positive results. They would lean into each other, on the couch, one’s hands clasped in the others’, one’s face nuzzled in the other’s hair. Although he ached for it, such a thing didn’t seem possible now. That was the issue. “You know that’s not true.”

“Why? Why not?” Crowley looked up, exasperation plain behind the darkened lenses. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale used his voice to try to instill a sense of scope in his companion. “You’re an _Archangel_.”

“That needs to be something you don’t say again,” a snarl, instilling a sense of scope in a slightly different direction.

“ _Were_.” Aziraphale sighed. “You _were_. Of the Archangels, two of them Fell. Of the two that Fell, one is Satan, Ruler of Hell. And the other is you.”

He had expected Crowley to have something to say at this point-- _anything_ to say at this point, really. But Crowley didn’t. Crowley sat there, flexing his hands together as though, if he didn’t, one of them would get out of line and maul the other. 

“You have to admit that is a lot to take in.”

“I Fell, yeah,” Crowley said. “Don’t tell me that was a surprise--”

“You know this is more than that!” Aziraphale protested.

“--I was something before. I had a role, a title, a place in the hierarchy, just like you. Then I lost it. Now it’s gone. Has been as long as I’ve known you.”

“And Lucifer-that-was has a hierarchy that is a mirror of the one Above, doesn’t he? How are you not his left-hand man? He has power that rivals any being--except, well, You-Know-Who--and you are kin!” No, the few days since their last conversation had not been enough time for him to do all of his thinking. Aziraphale’s mind was a whirlpool. He stood from his chair and paced away, towards one of the bookshelves at the other side of the room.

“I was given an assignment, to go to the Garden. I did. Had enough clout at the time, I needled to stay. You know what happened. You know _everything_ that happened after that.” 

Aziraphale saw a twitch in Crowley’s brow that he couldn’t quite read, and he turned away. He looked at the shelf and poked at this book or that. He felt like he could shout, like something inside was breaking or already had, like he could scream and fight and sob. Instead he whispered. “I had thought we were equals.”

“Wha--?” Crowley sounded like he was gargling, perplexed. “You thought--of course we are! What in bloody Earth does that even mean, ‘you thought we were equals’?” Aziraphale could hear him now shifting on the couch. He could assume that Crowley had sat up a bit taller, was looking at him with a nakedly frustrated expression behind those glasses. 

“A Principality of Heaven and a Demon of Hell. That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale screwed his eye shut, letting his fingers rest on the spine of a particularly comforting first edition of Edith Wharton. “Not a Principality and an Archangel-that-was.” This was the hard part, the part that ached with a deep and unclear fear. Aziraphale made himself continue. “The Archangels command all of Heaven. Commanded me. It was to them that I reported, as you most certainly know. It was them that sent the orders. Them who kidnapped me--you--and would have tossed me to hellfire. Them. And now I learn that it is with them that you belonged.”

Aziraphale heard the couch springs groan, the way they do when Crowley releases tension and leans back. When Crowley spoke next, his voice was gentle. “I didn’t belong, though, did I?” A pause. “Angel, why are you all the way across the room?”

“There’s also the matter of my name, you know.” Aziraphale kept on, ignoring the question. “Aziraphale. _‘Of Raphael_ ,’ literally. Literally! Six millennia, and you never happen to mention that I am _named after you_?”

“Please,” Crowley said. “Will you come over and sit with me?”

“And how you even can say it, I wonder! You see me, you say ‘Of Raphael.’ ‘Oh, hello, _Of-Me_ , how is it going here in Eden, hm?’ ‘Fancy running into you here in Babylon, _Of-Me_.’ ‘Care for a spot of lunch, _Of-Me_?’”

“Aziraphale--” Crowley started.

The angel cut him off by throwing up his hands, and turning around to face him. “How can it be that ‘Of-Raphael’ makes it past your lips when ‘Raphael’ can’t?”

“Because it’s your name. You, yours. It’s you.” Crowley’s voice was deep and thick, in a way that made Aziraphale afraid he would wilt. “Please. I am asking you to come and sit by me. Please come.”

Aziraphale’s brow twitched. His breath was catching. His feet were stuck in place. “I’ve been ordered what to do by Archangels my entire existence.”

Crowley’s lips moved, and a small sound came out. Then: “You’re acting like you don’t know me. Please, will you come here?”

“Oh, you’re being so dramatic!” Aziraphale scoffed. He did not move. “We’re twenty feet apart at most.” 

Crowley nodded, a long and slow movement, the way he does when he has figured out some riddle and was waiting for Aziraphale to catch up. “And I am afraid, now that you’ve started, you’re going to keep moving farther away.”

Part of Aziraphale--a strong, significant part of him--wanted to laugh and say how ridiculous. How foolish could Crowley be, to even raise that suggestion, after everything they had gone through just for the chance to be together in peace. He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t, because he noticed that he was still standing in place. 

“You hung the stars,” he said, and it felt like a cry.

“I’d hang them again for--” Crowley cut himself off in a hiss. “Look, I am begging you, okay? I beg.” He slid down off the couch, onto his knees on the floor. He splayed out his arms, a supplicant. “You ever seen an Archangel beg? A Lord of Hell? Huh? But that’s what I am doing, right now. I am begging you, Aziraphale, to please come over here and sit with me.”

The pause that followed was, in fact, a pregnant one.

“...Still seems a little dramatic,” Aziraphale muttered. But it did the trick. It got his feet to move, to take him over to the couch. He sat down in the seat next to the one Crowley had vacated in order to kneel. Crowley, for his part, leaned over, so his forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s knee. He sighed. Aziraphale rested a hand on the crown of Crowley’s head, letting his fingers run gently through the demon’s hair. 

It was quiet.

“You’re right,” Crowley said, not moving. “I probably should’ve said something.” He was looking off into the distance, the same direction as Aziraphale. His voice, for the first time all night, felt calm. “I’m not sure how I would have told you, though. Write it down? Wasn’t an option until humans made up their symbols. Charades, maybe? Can’t just crawl up to an angel you’ve never met before, say, ‘Oh, hello, turns out you have my job. Lost it when I was cast out from the Light, hope the same doesn’t happen to you. Oh, and your name is painfully familiar, now that you mention it.’”

“Is it painful?” Aziraphale winced. “All these years, my name, it’s painful to you?”

“No, no,” Crowley reassured. “Just an expression. The other one--you know, my na--” he cut short, he gagged. “--that other name. That one does hurt. In my ears. It’s like a hum that’s grown stabby.”

“Oh. I am sorry.” Aziraphale frowned. “I’ve been uttering it so much...”

Crowley shrugged. “Not as bad as Rome, 15th century. I think Head Office sent me there on purpose, right when that painter, you know the one, was all popular.”

“Must have been dreadful.”

“Not like it’s ever really nice, being a demon in the ‘Holy City.’ Still...” Crowley shifted now, turning so his head could face upwards to Aziraphale’s. His forehead was still against Aziraphale’s knee, and the movement made his sunglasses go askew. “It wasn’t all bad. You were there.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I remember that. We walked through vineyards.” He reached out, and Crowley assented. Aziraphale removed the sunglasses, folded them, and set them aside. He did not know what to think of the pleading expression he saw in his demon’s eyes. “Will you get up? No reason for you to be on the floor like that.”

The movement that pulled Crowley from his position on the floor, up to a seat on the couch beside the angel, could only be described as a slither. His long legs curled up beneath him on the cushion, he pushed his head into the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck, and he draped one arm across the angel’s midsection. The demon’s fingers made fists in the fabric of the angel’s shirt, grasping and holding on tight.

The whole matter had been resolved, or, more accurately, it hadn’t been resolved at all. 

***

There are plenty of ways in which slowness can be a good thing. Take a stew, for instance. It’s just chunks of beef and chopped up vegetables, floating embarrassed in water, until it’s introduced to low and slow heat. It’s the slowness of the preparation that makes a stew what it is, velvety, rich, and complex. Know how many restaurants prepare stew by throwing raw chunks of beef and vegetable into a microwave? In a kind and just universe, the answer would be none.

The stew here is, of course, a metaphor for the angel’s mind, which has felt the application of low and slow heat since he last broached the subject of Crowley-who-was with Crowley-who-is. 

Another important thing about stew, relevant to this angel’s mind, is that one would never judge a stew by its linearity. A stew doesn’t go from Point Beef, to Point Carrot, to Point Potato. Instead, through that application of low and slow heat, all the components of the stew get a little looser with their identities. They mesh together, the carrots tasting like beef, the beef seasoned by the carrots. To make a good stew, you need not only that low and slow heat, but also a fine jumble of ingredients, all higgledy-piggledy in a pot. 

Aziraphale’s mind was stewing, and all of the ingredients he had were, indeed, getting all nicely higgledy-piggledy.

Here is what Aziraphale found himself stewing together:

  * Point Beef Round, chopped into 1’ pieces and browned: Aziraphale had seen Crowley perform acts he had not assumed could be possible, such as stopping the very sands of time in the midst of the Armaggeddon-that-wasn’t.
  * Point Carrots, skinned and sliced: Aziraphale is _Of Raphael_ , and Crowley was _Raphael_.
  * Point Potatoes, skinned and quartered: Aziraphale had been so named, created specifically for that name, by The Almighty, Herself.
  * Point Stewed Tomatoes, crushed: If The Almighty, Herself, didn’t want Her Guardian of the Eastern Gate associating with the demon-that-had-been-Raphael, She bloody well could have chosen a different name, couldn’t She?
  * Point Onions, diced and sweated: Crowley was different, not like other demons. 
  * Point Beef Stock, or water if necessary: Crowley was Good. He was Lovely. He was Good in ways that all the forces of Heaven were not, sacrilege it may be to think.
  * Point Red Wine, just a splash: In Crowley’s form, bathing in holy water, Aziraphale had anticipated having to work harder to convince Beelzebub to leave the two of them alone. _That was remarkably easy_ , he had thought, as the Lord of Hell almost immediately relented.
  * Point Sprig of Thyme: It had felt--it had really and truly felt--as though something wonderfully right had happened, when Aziraphale and Crowley had joined together and shared each others’ faces, to save themselves from Heaven’s and Hell’s separate wraths.
  * Point Candied Almonds: Crowley smelled wonderful, and just thinking about it could leave Aziraphale lightheaded.



(Candied almonds, Aziraphale knew, have no place in a stew. He kept trying to keep them out, but they still ended up all higgledy-piggledy with the others anyway.)

All these ingredients had been simmering together a pot that could only be named A Soul-Deep Ache for Faith in The Ineffable Plan.

Aziraphale, after all, was an angel. He was made by The Almighty, he was named by Her, and he had been designed to rejoice in Her and Her creation. From the moment of his creation, he had wished he could sing to Her. That aching wish had never gone away. He had broken ties with Heaven, but The Almighty was not Heaven. He had actively defied Heaven’s rules, but he was now starting to suspect that The Almighty’s rules must be something else indeed. He had played a contributing role (perhaps--maybe--to some extent) in undermining Armageddon, and his whole being yearned to believe that maybe this was all alright with Her after all.

If you’re cooking a stew, there’s no point where the timer goes ‘ding,’ and suddenly boiled foodstuffs are transformed into a hearty meal. Stews just keep on stewing, getting richer and thicker, until finally one is tired of waiting and pulls out some bowls to get supper on the table.

After a few weeks, Aziraphale felt tired of waiting. 

***

He prepared, and he sat Crowley down at a table in the bookshop. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. 

Crowley confronted him with a raised eyebrow, and a pointed glance down at the figurines and drawings strewn across the table. “...Alright,” he said, and he would have looked a lot more dubious if he hadn’t been trying to stifle a smile. He had been playful all morning.

“I’ve thought this all out,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to his prepared materials, “and I’m going to explain it to you.”

Explain it he did. It was part narrative, part puppet show, and part philosophical treatise the likes of which is beyond mortal ken. It lasted forty-five minutes, almost exactly. The gist of it was this:

Suppose there was a deity (lower-case, as befits mere supposing). And suppose this deity had a plan, a wonderful, ineffable plan. This plan, she didn’t share with her Archangels, or anyone else for that matter. As a result, those Archangels got it in their heads that they _knew_ the plan, and it was a plan that involved the destruction of this deity’s whole, beloved creation. They fought with each other, leaving two sides in a war that they all thought was the ultimate purpose to the plan. That is, all but one of the Archangels. He Fell, yes, but he never presumed to know what the plan was. He didn’t get all pig-headed like all the others. For the sake of the exercise, call this Fallen Archangel Ralph. (“Can you say Ralph?” “Doesn’t hurt to hear it. Let’s try… _Ralph_. Yep, got it.” “Good, we’ll stick with that.”)

Now suppose this deity recognizes that her Ralph, although Fallen, isn’t pig-headed, like the others. Suppose she wants to support him, to whatever extent she can, as he continues to throw wrenches in the ridiculous war-plan all the other celestial beings are so gung-ho about. Ralph is, in fact, an agent of her ineffable plan, although he doesn’t know it. So she devises for him to have a helpmeet. She makes a new angel, lesser but sufficient. She sets this new angel in Ralph’s old spot, and she goes so far as to name him Of-Ralph.

Now Ralph and Of-Ralph have spent millennia together, and they helped undermine the pig-headed war. Now they were free, and they loved the deity’s creation. Ralph, with Of-Ralph for assistance, was now posed as the only celestial being to protect the world from the forces that would use it without thought to the suffering entailed.

Could it be that this was the ineffable plan, all along? That they just could not have foreseen, until it had come to fruition? And could it be that the ineffable plan continued with them, somehow, although they could not know how?

Finished, Aziraphale looked at Crowley expectantly, who tsked. “Can we stop with this whole ‘Of-Ralph’ thing?” He said.

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s just a stand-in. What would you prefer? Jim?”

Crowley shook his head. “No, I don’t mean the ‘Ralph’ part. It’s the whole ‘ _of’_ thing. It’s demeaning.”

Aziraphale, as someone who had just put a considerable amount of effort into trying to convince his companion that he was not an insignificant Fallen angel but, perhaps, in actuality, The Single Great Device of The Almighty’s Ineffable Plan, grew frustrated. “How am I demeaning you?”

“Not me! You!” Crowley threw out his hands, as if trying to bring something that was directly in front of Aziraphale’s face to his attention. “Stop calling yourself _‘Of-Ralph.’_ You’re not an _of_.”

“That is literally my name.”

“No.” Crowley shook his head, slowly but emphatically. “No, it’s not. Your name is yours. It is _you_. All this ‘ _of_ ’ business just doesn’t feel right.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed. “If you were the one who had been named Of-Ralph, you might feel differently. Here I am, trying to make sense of who you are, and I am named _Of-Ralph_ \--”

“You know what I think of all this?” Crowley interrupted, leaning back and folding his arms in front of him. He looked out from above his sunglasses and narrowed his gaze onto Aziraphale. “I think, fuck Ralph.”

The pause that followed was a very pregnant one indeed.

Crowley rolled his eyes as if in response to something Aziraphale had said, but Aziraphale was almost completely positive that he had said nothing. “What I mean is, I don’t like how comfortable you’re getting with this Ralph, Angel,” Crowley said, and he captured Aziraphale’s eyes with his own, over the rim of his sunglasses. “You keep forgetting what happened to him. He died. He’s gone. He Fell through sulphur and ash, and he was consumed by hellfire. I should know, I was there.”

“You’re missing the point, Crowley.” Aziraphale was disappointed that, after having worked so hard to prepare a stew and serve it up, it wasn’t being savored. “It’s not a matter of _identity_ , it’s a matter of _place_ and _power_.”

“ _‘Place_ and _power_ ,’” Crowley sneered. 

“You dispute that a Fallen Archangel is a different breed entirely from just any old Fallen angel?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Your closest analogues are the Ruler of Hell and the Director of Heaven!” Aziraphale was growing frustrated, and he gesticulated more grandly when he was frustrated. He jutted a hand out to the table, where his props were still strewn about, stabbing an index finger at the two figures he had drawn for Satan, first, and then Gabriel.

" _No_ ,” Crowley, demonic snake, hissed, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand out of the air, holding it by the wrist from across the table, his thumb pressing into the angel’s heartbeat. “Really, Aziraphale, is this what you insist on doing?” He spoke too quickly, spitting words more than saying them. “You put me on the outside, you deny me, you twist however you can to be distanced from me, all while I tell you--while I _have_ told you, over and over again even as you refused to listen--that the only analogue I accept is you. _You_.”

The demon had tight hold around Aziraphale’s wrist. The angel did not fear this snake, but still, he faltered. His mouth hung open. Too much more of this, and he might cry.

“Where is _Of-Ralph_ in your story here, Angel? Where is _Azi-Ralph_? Think about what you’re saying, just _think_!” Now he pushed Aziraphale’s hand away from him, stood and paced away, moving to where Aziraphale could not see him. “What does this story make you?” Every word was a hiss now, emitted from a clenched jaw. “What would you be to this Ralph, what with his _place_ and _power_?”

“I would be...” Aziraphale tried to start.

Hiss: “A soldier?”

“No!”

Hiss: “A servant?”

“Crowley!”

“Because that’s what you’re describing, Principality of Heaven!” Crowley was shouting now, and his voice sounded very wrong.  “Beings like Satan and Gabriel--they don’t have _friends_. They have soldiers and servants.” 

“I just want you to acknowledge the type of being you--Oh!” Aziraphale stood from his seat to get Crowley back in his sight, and everything changed once he did so.

The demon’s skin was shimmering, dark and oily, a mix of purples, greens and pustulant golds that were hard to keep in one’s vision. There was a glow from behind his sunglasses. One demonic wing had unfurled, where it twitched in the air, while the other was only half outstretched, caged in by the nearest bookshelf, the books starting to rattle. The whole of Crowley’s being vibrated. Worst, a trickle of Hell-black blood wound its way down from his mouth.

**I WOULD HAVE IT BE YOUR CHOICE TO KEEP ME BY YOUR SIDE.**

Aziraphale stumbled backwards, nearly fell.

Capitalized speech is a rare and difficult skill. Of course, everyone is capable of throwing a capitalized letter into one’s speech now and then, as Crowley and Aziraphale had with “The Arrangement,” and most beings do with “The Almighty.” But a fully formed statement, expressed in its totality in capitalized speech? Aziraphale couldn’t do it--his celestial powers did not extend that far. He could count on one hand all of the beings he had encountered who were capable of it. First, there was The Almighty, whose speech was always capitalized. Same was true for the second, Death. Regarding the third member on the list, Satan, Aziraphale had always assumed that capitalized speech was an affectation meant to impress. Fourth on the list was Gabriel, who Aziraphale had witnessed speak in capitals only twice, with both times being quite unpleasant.

And now there was a fifth member to this list. This small club, the Capitalized Speech Club. This fifth member was glowing, shuddering, glorious and disrupted.

**I WILL BE NO PART IN A COSMOLOGY THAT REFUSES YOU THIS.**

Aziraphale’s eyes were captured by the glowing creature, by his Crowley. The sunglasses could not hide that Crowley’s eyes were burning onto him. As he spoke, more demon blood spit from his mouth.

**I REJECT ANY SUCH PLAN.**

Tension reverberated through the demon’s body. The shimmering swirled and consumed his torso and legs, moved about his arms. A globule of blood flew from his mouth and sizzled on the floor.

**I DENOUNCE IT.**

With that, he fell. 

***

Crowley was Crowley, curled up on the floor, back to a wall. His wings were lax at his sides. His knees shielded his front, his hands covered his face. Aziraphale stood, two steps away. _He’s going to smudge his glasses_ , is somehow what he thought.

“You’re bleeding,” is somehow what he said.

“I’m fine,” Crowley whispered. He did not sound fine.

“I’ll… I’ll--One moment.” Aziraphale had handkerchiefs pressed and folded in a drawer. He had a glass full of water. He collected these things, and then he came back to Crowley. “I can’t get close. You’ll have to fold in your wings.”

Crowley didn’t.

“Crowley, fold your wings in!” Aziraphale commanded. Crowley obeyed. 

Once the wings were gone, leaving room for the angel, he knelt down at the demon’s side. He placed his scant healing tools on the floor and turned his attention to his companion’s face. “Alright, my dear,” he whispered. He reached up, taking hold of one of the demon’s hands that still shielded his eyes, guiding it down. He repeated with the other. Crowley’s eyes flicked once to him, behind the smudged lenses, and then they flicked elsewhere. It was when Aziraphale reached out to touch the demon’s blood-messed face itself that Crowley twitched away.

“Don’t. You’ll burn.”

“It’s not hellfire. I’m fine.” 

Aziraphale raised a hand to Crowley’s jaw, reverent, to turn the demon’s head towards him. Crowley relented, allowed his face to be guided. Aziraphale removed the smudged and crooked glasses from the other’s face, and Crowley winced as if the room were too bright for his eyes. It wasn’t. Aziraphale, resolved, let his fingertips caress Crowley’s cheek. The remnants of blood burned; Aziraphale accepted it. 

“Hold still,” he whispered.

He took up a handkerchief, wetted it, and brushed it against Crowley’s chin. The black blood would stain in a way that no miracling could ever remove. No matter. He cleaned the splattered blood from the demon’s cheeks. This was slow work. Once one handkerchief was soiled, he exchanged it for another. He let his fingers, wrapped in cloth, linger on the demon’s lips. 

Crowley watched the angel’s face with unshielded eyes.

“I need to see if you’re still bleeding,” Aziraphale said. “If you are, I’m not sure what we can do, but I need to see.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said.

“I need to see,” he insisted. “Open your mouth.”

Crowley looked away and squeezed his eyes shut, but he relented. Aziraphale felt the jaw flex beneath his touch. He moved his fingertips to prod softly at the flesh of Crowley’s lip. Crowley’s mouth opened no more than a human’s would. 

“You’re stained from teeth to tongue, but the bleeding is stopped.” Taking the cue, the demon closed his jaw. Aziraphale removed his fingers from the demon’s face, shifted his weight, and settled in at his side. He sighed. “What happened, Crowley?”

“I think it was the name.” Crowley’s voice seemed so little now. Broken. “When we started, it was fine. I think, at some point, I stopped saying it like it was just a name in a story. It was too close. Then I got a little carried away, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale is slow, but he _feels_. He feels deeply and fully. He feels in a way that is susceptible to revelation.

“I think…” Aziraphale started, hesitant. He wanted his voice to be low and soft, and yet it cracked. “I think I... finally understand how you Fell.” He anticipated some response. He expected a tension to return to his companion’s muscles, to feel like he was again sitting beside a spring-loaded trap. It didn’t happen. Crowley was spent, soft.  

“You know, all this time,” Aziraphale continued, “I had thought--or perhaps ‘hoped’ is a better word--I hoped it was some sort of cosmic mistake, your Fall. I saw you, I saw your Acts. I saw what other demons were like, what everyone in my Head Office was like. And I thought, ‘this must be some sort of error. This cannot be right. A creature like Crowley has no place in Hell.’” He laughed, or maybe he sighed.

“...Angel...” Crowley’s voice came slow with caution. His head turned just slightly, so that he could more easily lay his eyes on the angel’s face. He spoke as though, by his voice alone, he would heal an injured bird. “How is it that you have not Fallen?”

Aziraphale let out another small laugh, leaning his head against the wall so that his eyes could search the ceiling. “I don’t know. You would think, surely by this point, I have deserved it? What I just said, that alone should be enough… Do you think, perhaps, just now, it happened? I Fell and we didn’t even notice?” 

“I strongly doubt it,” Crowley said, “But let me check.” He propped himself up into a more upright position, cross-legged, and pulled at the angel so that they faced each other. He extended a hand towards Aziraphale’s face, hesitant and soft. He let his fingers make contact with Aziraphale’s brow, his cheek, his jaw. The demon led his face to one side and then the other, a gentle mimic of a close inspection.

“Alright, now _you_ open _your_ mouth,” he said. 

“Crowley, you were _bleeding!_ ” Aziraphale began to protest, but Crowley was already starting to smile.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Crowley could hiss so it sounded like a coo. He kept the angel’s cheek in his hand, kept his thumb pressed lightly to his chin. “Still angelic, still you.” Crowley’s eyes were still on him, still pouring over the contours of his face. “I don’t know how you haven’t Fallen. I hope you never do.”

“Yes.”

“But if you do, Angel, if that does ever happen…” Crowley’s voice, which had been more musing and soft, now grew deeper, sharper, fuller. “I will find you, and I will recognize you at first sight. I _will_. I will break asunder every door, every wall through all the Halls of Hell. I will work destruction and vengeance, until I have you and you are safe. I will--”

“Crowley.”

The demon sighed and was quiet.

“I don’t think I am going to Fall,” Aziraphale said, surprised by this sudden conviction. “You’ll have to find some other excuse to work destruction and vengeance.” The demon snorted. The angel smiled. “And Crowley…” He wanted to say this one more thing, but he wanted to say it _right_. “I am ever so glad that it was _you_ whom I met at the Wall. I am glad that I was stationed there, so I could meet you. And, well, Crowley, I am so glad that you are precisely as you are.”

“You and me,” Crowley said.

A moment passed, the two of them together in silence.

“Us,” Aziraphale breathed, and the word was a promise. 

***

It was another lovely afternoon in the park. The topic for nattering today was zebra crossings. Aziraphale insisted that, if any supernatural power had been responsible for them (and, for the record, he did not believe any had), then it surely must have been from Above. Crowley, for his part, was insistent that instead they must have been inspired from Below, although Aziraphale suspected the demon argued the point just to needle him. Aziraphale had _seen_ Hell, after all, and it was not a locality that inspired restrictive and limiting safety ordinances.

Conversation dwindled, and then Crowley’s pace slowed a bit. “There’s something I have been meaning to tell you.” At his tone, Aziraphale turned to him and raised an eyebrow in concern. Crowley grimaced, but continued: “I haven’t always been honest with you. I have lied to you. In the past.”

From everything about Crowley’s manner, Aziraphale felt he was expected to act dismayed and surprised to learn that a demon had engaged in deception. He tried, halfheartedly, to put on the show. “You haven’t?” he said.

“No, and I feel bad about it, I really do.” They started walking again, side by side, Crowley with his hands in his pockets and his head downturned. “It stopped maybe around 1450? I think that’s when. Found ways around it after that. But before...” He sighed. “I lied to you over and over again.”

“Well, what a shock indeed,” Aziraphale tried. “Best get out with the truth now, then.”

“Let’s start with Sicily, sometime around 1340. I told you I was busy with an operation to breed rats.”

“Hm, yes, although I do believe I saw through that devilish ruse.”

“I told my Head Office I was bribing sailors on quarantined ships to break into the city.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrow quirked. “So you told me one thing, and you told them another. And the truth was?”

“The truth was… Something else entirely.” Crowley looked so deeply uncomfortable. Part of Aziraphale wanted to provide some reassurance. A different part of him appreciated the demon squirming in discomfort. That part won out.

“Go on with it, darling,” Aziraphale said.

“I started a hospital,” Crowley winced. “I told Head Office I was conjuring money for the bribes, but I used it to set up a hospital. Orphanage, too.”

“A hospital!” 

“You know how that plague was.” Crowley shrugged. “I couldn’t bear it, so I did something. Had to be careful about it, though.”

“You could have told me. I would have helped,” Aziraphale said, although, as soon as he did, he realized that perhaps he wouldn’t have. Not back then.

“I didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t know what you would think.”

No, Aziraphale realized, that’s not right. Crowley must have known what Aziraphale would have thought. Surely, by the fourteenth century, Crowley had known Aziraphale inside and out. He  would have known Aziraphale well enough to know that, unlike so many others from Above, he would cherish a house of healing, even if founded by an agent of Hell. Perhaps, precisely _because_ it was founded by an agent of Hell, taking it as pompous proof of Heavenly Triumph. It couldn’t be that the demon did not know how the angel would think, certainly not after they had known each other for so long. The real doubt, the doubt Crowley must have actually had in mind when he weaved a shoddy yarn about rats those centuries ago, was what Aziraphale would _do,_ separate from thinking how nice a hospital can be. By the fourteenth century, could Crowley trust Aziraphale well enough to keep such a secret? This was no part of The Arrangement, there was no mutually-ensured destruction. This was vulnerability, the belly of a snake exposed.

Crowley had not trusted Aziraphale with his vulnerabilities. And, thinking back, Aziraphale understood he had been right not to do so. 

“Anyway, the point is…” Crowley went on, bringing Aziraphale back to attention. “Humans get a great pile of cash for a hospital, first thing they expect to do is stick the benefactor’s name over the front door. I told them not to worry about it, but it turns out having great piles of cash to offer no strings attached looks mighty suspicious. They pushed for a name. So I gave them one.”

Aziraphale is slow, but he feels astutely. He sees clearly. As Crowley hesitated at this part in his confession, the edges of what Aziraphale was seeing started to come into focus. His demon was sheepish, but not for the lies. This all was preamble, Aziraphale saw, for what was about to come next.

“More specifically, I gave them yours,” Crowley said, with a trained causal air that, Aziraphale suspected, anyone else might actually be fooled by.

“You used my name.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Crowley was starting to glance Aziraphale’s way, after spending so much time ever-so-casually not looking in his direction. Aziraphale could see, playing at the corners of Crowley’s mouth, small attempts at hope. “Another way to say it is, I named a hospital after you.”

Aloud, the angel said, “Hospital Aziraphale…” To himself, he thought: _The Hospital Of Raphael_.

“And Sicily wasn’t the only one.” While he spoke, Crowley monitored Aziraphale’s face, his eyes, his expression. Aziraphale knew he was searching, seeking, for any hint of danger, and the angel could feel the demon’s hesitant, shy hope growing each moment that passed without him finding any. “I’ve put _Hospitals Aziraphale_ just about everywhere--every nook and cranny on this great big globe, wherever humans get sick. And that’s everywhere, the poor bastards.” 

“Well! Isn’t that something.” Aziraphale gave the demon his smile, and he rejoiced in the palpable relief he saw returned. Yet, still, he felt unsettled pieces shifting in his mind. He saw so much.

He saw an Archangel who did not fit with his angelic peers, who could not stop questioning The Plan, and who thereby Fell. He saw a Fallen Archangel who did not fit with his demonic peers, who suffered for the humans who suffered, who Acted at the risk of his own immortal self for those mortals whose whole existences passed by like shadows. He saw what it would be like to find an unexpected friend. He saw a world full of _Hospitals of Raphael._ He saw these as remembrances, placed throughout the world, for an Archangel who had loved, who had been made to heal.

“A gift!” Aziraphale said. A sliver of grace, a token, an offering. The gift of a common name.

Crowley reached outward, and Aziraphale took his hand. Crowley squeezed, softly. His eyes were still intent, seeking something from Aziraphale, perhaps sensing that the angel’s mind was at work. “Yes, and...” This was hard for the demon. Of course it was hard. Aziraphale smiled to the creature who was rejected, cast out, called defiled and foul. Called defiled and foul, for millennia, even by his only friend. A friend who had relied on, but had not been reliable. A friend who had not earned the trust to be told of a name, half forgotten and eternally aching. Aziraphale smiled, and he hoped that the smile reflected only the great shimmering love he held within him, and not the sadness, the regret, that he had not earned much sooner the trust to be told about a world full of _Hospitals of Raphael._  “...And you’re welcome,” Crowley finished.

Aziraphale senses more acutely than most. He senses richly enough to know that, sometimes, when you hear a demon say ‘you’re welcome,’ it’s best to hear instead, ‘thank you, and you are forgiven, and please forgive me always.’

Aziraphale smiled, and yet he was afraid. He was afraid that he may not be able to hold this smile for his demon much longer, that the grief that was starting to spread throughout him would show.

For an angel, Aziraphale is slow. Unique among his angelic brethren is how he feels, perceives--how he can _take in_ so much from the world around him. He is filled up with these sensations and perceptions. He revels in them. His mind _works_ ; he can reason and scheme like the best of them. But he has always been disposed more towards the hidden truths that can be found only through the experience of love.

It is those truths that sound like the voice of God. 

_WHAT IS FORGIVENESS BUT THE HEALING OF A WOUND?_

His breath caught, he almost choked. For a moment -- for the briefest, most fleeting moment -- his attention left Crowley, and Crowley noticed. Aziraphale’s eyes teared up, but this was alright. It was alright! The angel laughed. He smiled. He brought Crowley’s hand up, held it to his lips. He kissed his beloved’s skin. 

“You’ve always been so _nice_ , Crowley,” he said, pushing a feigned innocence into his eyes.

Crowley twitched, of course he did. Old habits die hard, wounds take time to heal. But then he smirked, rather than growled. The narrowing of his eyes was a tease, not fear and pain. “Don’t push your luck, Angel,” he warned, and both could hear the playfulness in it.

“Come, let’s go home.” And so they did.

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by all the wonderful theorizing about Raphael on Tumblr. In particular, I was inspired by a post that had Aziraphale and Crowley looking at a painting of Raphael (although that ended in a much different way than I've taken it here). I've lost these threads -- if I find them again, I will link to them.
> 
> Edit: Thank you everyone for the very kind comments. You all mean the world to me.


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